Slipping
by Holli-chan
Summary: "You can bend it and twist it... You can misuse and abuse it... But even God cannot change the Truth." -Michael Levy.  Multi-chap, Matt/Mello, possibly sensitive themes, mentions of sex. M just in case.
1. Lost

_**A/N: this isn't going to be my major multi-chap, since this one's definitely going to have absurdly short chapters and not be too long at all, but I'm having trouble writing the major one I wanted to do, so this is to keep the creative juices flowing and keep the updates coming. Hopefully it won't suck. *Edit: oh, and I'd like to add that just because this is under 'spiritual' doesn't mean it's going to go A LOT into religion, but... well, you'll see later. Just to be clear, Matt and Mello's views on death, life, and afterlife aren't mine. Probably. I won't say unless you ask.  
**_

_**Warnings: This story will have a lot of warnings, so please, look at them before you read. Thanks.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note. Actually, I think it's safe to say I NEVER WILL. Thus why I'm on FANFICTION.**_

_**Ohm, music! (some of the songs won't actually be related to the chapter at all, just the song that helped me write it XD)**_

_**Song of Choice: "Easier to Lie" - Aqualung  


* * *

**_

**Los Angeles, California. 11:32 P.M. PDT. Friday.**

It was warm out, too warm really, especially for so late at night. It was uncomfortable for him, wearing so many layers in the heat. It was a Friday. He was in California. There were people everywhere, passing him or shoving passed to get to where they were going, clearly irritated that he was standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. This was what Matt knew.

He was lonely. He could feel it in his heart. He had been searching through the city for hours, but he still hadn't found him. He was being selfish and impatient, trying to hunt his lover down when he was probably working, but it would be worth it. Mello was fine. This was what Matt thought.

Again Matt yanked his cell phone out of his pocket. Again, he saw that he had a missed call, and again, upon checking, he saw that it had not been Mello as he might have hoped. Instead it was Halle, calling to irritate him again. He couldn't quite place why he was so easily irritated with the woman, perhaps because she insisted on feeding him nonsense every time they spoke, but whatever the case he had no intention of calling her back anytime soon. If she needed to know something she could ask Mello.

Shoving his hands into his pockets Matt continued his walking, paying no mind to the annoyed looks he got from people going around him. He liked to think that, if Mello was there walking with him, he would have flicked them off. But not Matt. Matt just kept walking, keeping his goggled eyes straight ahead and not letting himself think to much.

He did that quite a lot lately.

After about a half hour of walking pretty much aimlessly he found himself at a run-down pizza place across the way. It wasn't too far from his apartment at this point, and he still hadn't found Mello, but he was starving and he gave in to the seductive scent of baking pizza coming from inside as the door swung open with each passing pedestrian. If Mello was hungry, he could feed himself later, Matt decided, strolling in.

Even with that mindset, Matt decided save a few pieces and boxed them to go. He couldn't let his lover starve again. And he knew that he _would _starve, if food wasn't convenient enough - the blonde's only motivation eating-wise was chocolate, and that was always on him and wasn't exactly nutritional.

The food was delicious. He loved little places like this, with cheesy Italian music playing in the background and cheap but not uncleanly interior. It was one of those cute little family places. He liked them mostly because it made him have a feeling of a cozy little home, a feeling he wasn't really all that familiar with anymore. Plus they tended to have good food, even if Matt didn't have much of an appetite these days, and he managed to fork down a piece and a half of cheese pizza before feeling too full and paying the bill.

(Not with his money, by the way. Matt didn't pay with his own money anymore.)

Smiling happily to himself Matt strolled out and headed for the apartment. He felt sure that the blonde would be there when he got home - he always was. So he wasn't too worried when he couldn't find his key in his pocket - he just knocked on the door and called, "Mello! Mel-Mel, baby, open the door, would you? Forgot my key!"

Matt expected cursing from the other side of the rickety door, but to his surprise only silence met him. _But it's nearly midnight… how is Mello not home yet? _Matt wondered, settling for pulling the spare key from the dorky little plant that sat outside their door and opening it that way. Indeed, the apartment was empty.

"He's always fucking _somewhere _lately, isn't he?" Matt inquired to no one, glancing forlornly at the chocolate bar still sitting on the side table. Mello had left it there some time he was here, and it was starting to look disgusting, but Matt had insisted Mello pick it up himself. The blonde had yet to get himself to actually do any cleaning, even it if it was that damn chocolate bar, so it had remained untouched. _Stubborn bastard, _Matt thought, leaving the candy and slinging the pizza onto the kitchen counter before slinking off into the bedroom to play video games till Mello returned.

But, to Matt irritation, Mello didn't return within the thirty minutes he sat down to play Pokemon Diamond (gotta love the classics) and his eyes were starting to droop. After a quick save Matt tossed the device to the edge of the bed, yanked off his clothes and crawled under the covers in only boxers. Really, Matt wasn't exactly mad at Mello. He never was. He just wished he'd come home earlier.

But then, wishful thinking had never been Matt's forte, and Matt fell asleep truly only hoping that Mello would wake him up when he arrived, no matter how late it was.

* * *

**Los Angeles, California. 4:14 A.M. PDT.**

"Matty… Matty, wake up, you're taking up the whole damn bed…"Mello opened his dreary eyes just slightly. In the dim light of the bedroom he could make out the slight shape of a person that was unmistakably Mello, blue eyes glinting as they caught the slight reflecting light of the moon through the window. Despite his exhaustion Matt smiled at him, a soft, loving expression he put on only for Mello.

Slowly Matt shifted to his side of the bed, but not so much that the blonde wouldn't be forced to press against him to get into bed. Mello didn't mind though - he never did - and crawled in beside him.

Matt didn't question that Mello wasn't very warm, because he never was, only wrapped his arms around the blonde and held him gently against his chest. "Love you ya' know…" Matt murmured, sighing sleepily.

He couldn't see Mello's face, but he felt sure there was a smile on his face by the tone of his reply. "Love you to, Matt."

The redhead struggled to stay awake for more words with his love, but consciousness was escaping him rapidly and he felt himself fall back into his dream world once again.

Just like every other night as of late, it was a nightmare.

* * *

**Los Angeles, California. 8:01 A.M. PDT**

Matt woke up alone again, his arms wrapped only around nothing but empty space.

It didn't come as a surprise to the redhead now. Mello was always busy with something, even if the blonde didn't always tell him what it was. Sure, it didn't usually last for am month, but it wasn't really that surprising either. This was Mello. This was the price of loving him.

It wasn't surprising.

But it still broke his heart a little every time.

Still Matt dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen. And still he forced himself to make only one bowl of cereal and get only one glass of water, struggling not to notice the uneaten pizza on the counter. _Doesn't Mello eat at all anymore? _he had to wonder, but he threw the thought away. He probably ate at his work.

It just figured, too, that with the Kira investigation over Mello would ignore him even more.

_Don't think that way. He's not ignoring you. He has to work. He's fighting some evil now, surely._

_Or at least fighting that twat Near._

This thought, however mean to the little albino boy, gave Matt a comforted smile. Comforted because at least he wasn't the one that Mello hated. He could have been, easily, had Matt not allowed his grades to slip in order to be close to Mello (and have more video game time, that is). He could have been the hated number 1, and Near could have been…

Been…

Matt scowled and shoved the thought away. Near could never be what Matt was to Mello, whatever that was. Not a lover or a best friend or a fuck-buddy or however you wanted to label them. Not that they'd really been _fucking _all that often lately either.

_He's busy. He's busy. He loves you, but he's busy._

Letting out a throaty sigh Matt flopped onto the couch, flipping on the television. Or at least, he attempted to, but he only found that it wasn't working for some reason. But then, everything in this damn apartment was broken almost constantly it seemed to him (and damned if Mello didn't complain about it just as constantly). Matt didn't bother to even try to fix it, though, instead flipping over on his back and checking his phone, which was sitting on the table. Two text messages. One missed call, one voicemail.

The call was from Halle, as was the voicemail. Matt ignored them both. The same went for the first text, also from Halle.

**Halle: We need to talk. Don't ignore me please. I know you're avoiding it, but you know what we need to do no matter how much you don't want to. It's what he'd have wanted. Call me.**

Matt deleted that text message without a second thought. He was tired of Halle trying to cheer him up about Mello's neglect with these stupid, vague messages. If Halle wanted to talk to him, she'd have to go through the blonde, even if he was the source of the neglect - that's simply how it went with him.

The next text surprised him more than anything else. It was from Near.

**Near: Have you died? In that case, shall it be a double funeral? Call Halle back. -N**

Matt sighed, exasperated. Not only because Near had made yet another comment about how it had once been a joke around Wammys that 'as soon as one dies, the other won't last long, eh?' about the two of them, but because Near was treating him like a child.

He treated it as such, texting three angry words to the albino. **Matt: go away, Near. **And that was the end of that; he didn't even bother reading the message Near sent next, only deleting it as it came in without a second glance and tossing the device onto the couch.

So maybe he was a little unhappy. What did it matter, really? He was unhappy all the time when Mello wasn't around. Talking to Halle wasn't going to help that, and talking to Near would only make it worse in the long run. The only person he wanted to talk to was Mello… and his video games.

Ah yes. Video games. Video games… and cigarettes.

Pulling his escape and his poison of choice from under their hiding spots (under the couch pillow for the cigs, on the counter for the DS). He didn't bother opening the window or anything, simply lighting up in the living room and flicking on his game, smiling as it lit up with a happy little ping. Matt wished he cold ping back in appreciation.

Video games were always happy to see you.

* * *

**Los Angeles, California. 8:01 A.M. PDT**

_January 26_

That was the date on the calendar. And it disturbed Matt to no end.

It had never been something that Matt consciously noticed, really, though now that he was standing there in the kitchen, staring at that ratty old tear-off day-calendar on the wall, he realized how very much he was aware of the morning routine with Mello he had been. Aware, almost enticingly so, of how each morning Mello always took care to rip off a page of the calendar and toss it into the recycling bin. Matt had always enjoyed the sound it made, and Mello had always enjoyed tearing it up and occasionally tearing the poor 'yesterday' into shreds.

_January 26_

A bead of sweat rolled down Matt's forehead, more from his mind stressing himself out than anything else. He didn't know why, couldn't get through the stony coldness of his own mind, but the calendar bothered him perhaps more than anything else. Something about the day, staring at him in the face, glaring at him. Whispering cruel nothings: _You see Matt? You see how he's slowly abandoning everything, everyone? I'm just a calendar, but your next._

_January 26. January 26. January 26. No, it's not. It's not._

Matt stepped forward and ripped the page off. And the next. And the next. In fact, he ripped and tore until the correct date stared back at him, the small squares of paper laying in a mess on the floor below the calendar, fluttering to the ground as sheets or crumpled into a wad and hitting to the ground with a soft thud. Again and again until the correct day twinkled in his eyes.

_February 22._

"Good…" Matt whispered, feeling that his throat was much too dry as he spoke. "Now it's right." His voice sounded strange in his ears, too low pitched, but it didn't matter to him now. He only stumbled back and sat down on the kitchen table, staring at the calendar and its correct date and the mess of crumpled papers on the floor.

And for a moment Matt thought that maybe, just maybe, he could pretend that Mello had been the one updating it all along.

_February 22. February 22. February 22... _Matt smiled gravely to himself. _Happy birthday, George Washington. Hope you're happy.

* * *

_

**A/N: Ah, yes. Nothing like a little history lesson from Matty. **

**If you're wondering "ummm?" it's because it's the first chapter. It's suppose to be a bit confusing. XD also, yes. Matt's a crazed freak. And yes, this chapter is too short. As will the rest of them be.**

**Review..?**


	2. Lies

**A/N: Ok so for some reason my A/N's got deleted before...? So here it is a tiny bit late.**

**Disclaimer: Must i repeat myself?**

**Song Of Choice: What If - Coldplay  
**

**Los Angeles, California. 5:02 P.M. PDT. Monday.**

The name of the place was actually Siren Cafe, and as such was the lettering on the sign on the door, named because of the fire department that it once was before it had been converted into a restaurant/sports bar. People called it The Sin, though, for two reasons. The first was that the R and E in the large neon sign above the place were always out, spelling out SIN CAFÉ instead of the previous.

It had always interested Matt how the majority of people he had spoken to that came to the Sin called it by that name when that clearly wasn't it's actual title. It wasn't so much the idea of it that made him so perplexed, really, but rather the way that everyone seemed to know to call it the Sin despite Siren Café being the name on all of the menus and on the door. Even the waitresses called it The Sin when none of the managers were around, which was almost all the time. Who told them to call it that?

It wasn't much of a "café", really, considering it had a bar in the back and had televisions constantly playing football everywhere, but Matt didn't really care for official titles. After all, he didn't go by one himself.

"Um, sir? Are you ready to order now?"

There was a cautious tone to the voice that now emanated, not for the first time, from the curly-haired waitress. Slowly, Matt looked up at her, studying her face. She had freckles, lots of them, and worried brown eyes.

Matt shook his head blatantly, looking back down at his menu. When she gave him an exasperated look, he whispered, "I'm waiting for someone. He'll be here any second now."

The waitress smiled, but it was forced and Matt could see that it didn't touch her eyes. She was irritated.

"Sir," she said, slowly, as if Matt might not understand her if she didn't. Like he had spoken another language besides English. "I… don't… think your date… is going… to show." Matt understood her words in their bare meaning.

She was wrong, though. Mello was coming; he had said so himself.

* * *

**Los Angelus, California. 5:38 P.M. PDT. Monday.**

Mello never showed.

Matt had wanted to wait longer. He had told the woman so as she moved in to take the skinny young girl's shift, had pleaded with her - _you can't, I have to stay here, I have to be here until he gets here; he can't come to an empty booth! - _but she hadn't listened to him. Nobody did these days.

It hadn't looked like Mello was to be coming anyway, and if he did, Matt supposed the blonde would call him. The rain, however, did come, and right on schedule it poured onto the rest of the city in buckets, exploding onto the cement.

Matt didn't hurry his pace, didn't try to avoid the soaking downpour even as crowds of pedestrians rushed around him for cover from the weather. He just continued to walk in his leisurely pace, dragging his feet a bit and bobbing his head to an imaginary tune.

In his mind, Matt wondered if Mello had known it was going to rain. And he thought that perhaps that was the reason he never showed up.

Nobody likes to be rained on.

* * *

**Los Angelus, California. 2:01 A.M. PDT. Tuesday.**

Matt didn't drink often, mostly because it effected his driving skills. But when he _did _drink, he drank a lot.

It didn't matter what kind of drink, as long as it had alcohol. Liquor, wine, beer, tequila, even those dumb little fruity drinks… it didn't make a diffrence. Just so long as it blurred Matt's mind.

Matt didn't have an excuse as to why he drank. He wasn't going to deny it or make up some petty little story about self-esteem or peer-pressure or depression or the pressure he was under. It didn't even make Matt feel better. The only reason he drank was, to be frank, because it let him be stupid for a while. Let him stop thinking, even for the briefest of periods.

Normally, Matt saw everything with sharp vision. He had 20/20 vision (without those goggles blocking his eyes anyway), and his brain was constantly going over the speed-limit. It had been one of his many assets at Wammys, one that, as was like most all of his other assets, tended to be neglected and unused.

In fact, Matt even resented it. Mello would have killed him if he knew the kind of brain he was holding back, he really would have. Would have first forced him to use it to it's greatest potential and get to the top, then wallow in his own misery and anger that he couldn't ever do the same with such ease. IT would be the end of them, doubtlessly.

When Matt was drunk, though, he didn't have to think about that. He didn't get drunk often, but when he did, he liked it. He liked it quite a lot. He liked the way things blurred at the edges, liked the way that his confidence would always spike and he could toss his worries over his shoulder. Sure, he wasn't stupid - the worries would come back when his full conciousness did - but for the drunken moments he was just fine. Just sitting on that ugly yellow couch and humming away to himself.

Even drunk, though, Matt had to wonder when Mello would be home. Even drunk, Matt missed the blonde with such longing. It just dulled the pain of it. Made it more whimsical. Caused Matt to lull his head back against the couch and sing along to the commercial on the radio, some Elvis song he barely knew. Sing it at the top of his lungs and picture the annoyed face Mello would give him, because Matt really couldn't sing at all, especially when he wasn't sober.

He was on his fifth drink when Mello came home.

* * *

**Los Angelus, California. 2:53 A.M. PDT. Tuesday.**

"Matt, you're such an idiot. How much damn liquor did you have?" Mello drawled irately, crouching on the couch in a queer manner.

Matt only grinned at him brightly, glad to have his lover home - though he hadn't a single idea where he'd come from since he never noticed him come in the door, not that he noticed much of anything in this state - and reached out to hug him. To Matt's dissapointment, though, he was swatted away, the swatter giving him a displeased look.

"Is this what you do while I'm working, huh?" Mello demanded hotly. "Get drunk and sit around all day?"

Matt laughed drunkenly, laying back on the couch. For a moment he didn't reply, instead watching Mello as he frowned at him, taking in the curve of his face and the brightness of his eyes. It had been a while, too long. Then he found he had to reply and he drawled, "A'course not. I went out to eat not nine hours ago. An' you nev'r showed either."

The blonde frowned at him, scowling almost venomously now. "Didn't show?" he asked stonily. Matt nodded decidedly, and when he did, Mello took the opportunity to slam his fist into the coffee table, sending an innocent magazine to the floor. _Vouge. _

This should have frightened Matt, seeing Mello acting so violent so close to him. But Matt had never been afraid of the blonde, because he never hurt him; even if he did, Matt doubted he would mind too much. Just so long as he wasn't being ignored…

"…Tch, Matt," Mello muttered, cooling off almost immediately as Matt suspected he would. Because Mello could never stay mad at him. Instead he simply sighed exasperatedly and laid against the couch, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. I tried to come, I did… but…"

"But you were busy," Matt finished Mello's sentence with ease, his voice quivering. The other gave him a look that said that he wanted to argue, demand that he had a reason better than that one, but he faltered and looked away.

"Yeah. I was too busy. With work," Mello replied quietly. He sounded almost sad.

This almost-sadness drove Matt to scoot across the couch, almost drunkenly sliding off of it altogether in the process, until he was beside him but not quite touching him. Hugging his legs to his chest as he often did as a child, he whispered over his knees, "What are you doing now, Mello? What _is _work now?"

Mello paused, not speaking for a moment. Staring blankly at the wall, ceasing all visible motion. Before Matt could tell him he didn't have to say anything for him, Mello muttered, "Just Mafia stuff," and set his gaze downcast. With his hair falling just right over his face, hiding that crude scar that marred his previously perfect face, Matt almost could have forgotten that the Mafia was gone.

But Matt didn't point it out. He didn't even frown. He simply nodded, turned around, and turned on the TV without a word. Mello didn't speak either, simply lounging beside him and watching as Matt turned to a reality show.

Matt always hated these kinds of shows. Reality TV and lying; he hated them both to a horrid extent.

Mello seemed to enjoy both lately, and as usual, Matt put up with it without a single complaint. He simply sat there and bore it, enjoying the feeling of having Mello beside him even if the blonde never said a word.

* * *

**Los Angelus, California.7:32 A.M. Tuesday**

Matt woke up to find that he had fallen asleep on the couch again. The show was on a marathon, as these types of shows always annoyingly seemed to be, but the episode was long gone as was the boy that had been watching it.

"Dammit," Matt whispered, rubbing his eyes. Then he called out, "Mello?" Willing the blonde to reappear and grumble, 'what do you want?'

The only response he got to his call was a shooting pain in his head. _Welcome to your latest hangover, Mail._ _How does it feel to face it alone again?_

Matt didn't know why he even woke up. His eyelids were drooping horribly and he felt like a cinderblock; moving didn't even seem like a plausible option. He realized what roused him only when the thing repeated itself, an annoying buzzing against his thigh, persistent and repetitive.

For once, Matt didn't check the caller I.D. before he picked up. He simply jerked the cellular phone from it's place wedged between his thigh and the coushin and pressed it to his ear with an irritated "What?" as a greeting.

The voice was, for once, relatively unfamiliar. "Matt, is this you?" The voice of a young woman. It felt as if it might have been familiar, in another life, but now when Matt heard it he felt only apathy despite the way it was trembling.

So he asked, "Who's this?" He was almost surprised at how dull and uncaring his voice sounded in comparison to her shaking, emotional one.

There was a choked out sob from the other line, and Matt listened almost carefully at the sound of the speaker being covered up in attempt to hide the sound. Then the woman seemed to give up and simply speak. "Oh god, Matt, where have you been? Everyone's been trying… trying to get a hold of you… freakin' bastard…" the woman sobbed, becoming shriller as she did.

With this sudden pitch change Matt recognized the voice.

"Linda?" he asked in recognition. By the way her sobs became even harder, it was clear that he was correct in his guess. God… how long had it been since he had spoken to the perky little brunette with the flirtatious smile and excited voice? How many years since Mello had complained about her clinging to him so constantly?

The sobs on the other line died down now, replaced by a remorseful whine. "Oh Matt… thank god you picked up. I was starting to think you'd killed yourself, but then Near said he'd gotten a text back from you and I made him… him give me your number… I'm so sorry, Matt."

So Near was behind the call…

Matt was awake now and he sat up, though his head still throbbed with the hung-over feeling. "I didn't, I'm alive," he told her pointlessly. Then he asked, "It's fine. If you wanted my number, you could have just said so."

Linda fell silent for a moment, as if startled. Then she whispered, almost in a hiss, "Not about that, s-stupid. I mean about… you know, the accident…"

No, Matt didn't know. His first thought was of the explosion that had marred Mello, but he knew this couldn't be what Linda was getting so worked up over; that had been a long time ago, eons it seemed in Matt's mind.

"What accident?" Matt inquired slowly, shifting the phone from one shoulder to the other, twisting his head to hold the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

Linda's pause before responding was much longer now. Had Matt been able to see her face, he would have seen a stunned expression of confusion and disbelief, seen her lips tremble as she replied in a perplexed tone, "What do you mean, _what accident?_ You got shot at least eight times. And Mello… don't you remember?"

Matt frowns, because he doesn't remember, and because his entire body is trembling and he can't remember when it started. Except he knows he must have been trembling for a while now, because beads of sweat are appearing on his forehead. The model on Vogue magazine looks at him with a mocking expression from the coffee table where it sits as Matt asks, "Mello?" Because that's all he cares about. And then, "What are you talking about, Linda? Have you gone mad?"

Linda doesn't pause now. She sounds as if she's on the verge of tears again now, her voice more grave and serious than Mello had ever heard it as she reports what Matt should have known long before this.

"Matt… Mello died on the twenty-sixth. Are you okay?"

Without another word, Matt hangs up the phone and whirls it across the room. It doesn't break.

**A/N: Oh my.**


	3. Late

**Disclaimer: I duz nawt own teh Deth Nowtez, beeches.**

**A/N: Well, here's your next chapter. Enjoy. **

**Song of Choice: Delicate - Damien Rice

* * *

**

**Los Angelus, California. 7:03 P.M. PDT. Monday.**

"That Linda girl is nuts. Crazy," Matt mumbled, more to himself than anything, as he poured milk into the glass in front of him.

Across the table, Mello scoffed, brushing blonde hair behind his ear. "Tch. All artists are crazy, that's what I say."Matt nodded agreeably, as he always did, though he was certain that the stereotype couldn't be completely true since he knew that quite a few artists were brilliant. But then, most things Mello said had at least some accuracy to them, so maybe not.

Not particularly caring to think on the matter Matt slid Mello's milk over to him and started sipping at his, watching Mello carefully as he lounged in his chair, never quite meeting his eyes as he looked around the room. Watched the way occasionally the blonde would smile a bit as his eyes landed on something with special meaning, or something with special memories attached to it. Mello really wasn't home enough.

Matt's gaze turned downcast, staring into the milk sloshing about in his glass. "Linda said you were dead. That you'd been dead for… a while."

Once again Mello scoffed, almost rudely this time, and when Matt glanced up the blonde was on his feet, pacing across the room to inspect the calendar as he sniggered, "_Me?_ _Dead?_ Hah!" The way Mello said it, it made it seem like the most ridiculous thing in the world. Matt still gave him a strange look, his mind still not wrapping around the fact that Linda would lie to him, but the befuddled expression vanished into a small smile as Mello gave him a blunt look.

"I'm not dead, Matt," Mello repeated, stomping across the room and laying a kiss on his forehead. Against his skin, Mello whispered in a rare tender tone, "I'll always be here with you."

Matt felt a blush taint his face, though no happiness came with it, and he whispered a pleading, "Promise?"

"I promise," Mello said.

And oh how Matt wanted to believe him as he watched him turn around and hurry out the door, just as he had mentioned he would; he had to leave to go to work again. Illegal work.

Slowly, Matt turned around to look at the empty chair across from him where Mello had sat. Staring at the full to the brim glass of chocolate milk across the table, for everything in him Matt could not remember weather he had seen Mello take a sip.

* * *

**Outside Los Angelus, California. 3:16 P.M. PTD. Tuesday.**

Matt didn't want to be here.

"_What do you mean doesn't… _remember_ it?"_

Everything in him wanted to leap out of his chair and dash out of the house. Or, better yet, to close his eyes and pretend like none of this was happening. It was hard, though, when their whispers about him came through the walls.

"_I don't know… maybe he has post traumatic stress disorder? PTSD?"_

"_I guess… I'm not a therapist though."_

Matt squeezed his eyes shut, pressing himself further against the chair. Linda had situated him here, telling him to relax until Halle and Linda had finished discussing in the other room. They were in there, he could hear them - they were discussing about him, _his _life, _his _future. What they would _do about him._

"…_What about the funeral? Mello would want him to be there."_

"_Is that smart?"_

Matt wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. Maybe even die. Anything to end the mind-numbing confusion, the pounding of his temples as he tried to decipher just what was happening. He knew only a few things. Where he was, the date, and that Mello loved him.

That, and that he wanted them to stop talking through the walls.

Halle clearly had no intention of listening to him. _"I don't know… I'm telling you, he doesn't believe me. He wouldn't pick up my calls, and when I came to his apartment, he just stared at me like I was some sort of alien and said 'oh, Halle. Mello just left.'"_

"_Seriously?"_

He had. He had just left. Matt wasn't crazy.

He was there.

There with him. Drinking chocolate milk.

"_Yeah… isn't it sad?"_

Matt wanted them to be quiet. Yet even pressing his palms against his ears did not silence their words, only muffling their passage into his mind, scrambling everything he thought and wanted to know.

"_How are we going to get it through to him? Prove it?"_

"_Maybe if he went to the funeral…?"_

Funeral? No. Mello didn't need a funeral? Whose funeral?

"_Maybe… but you know there's no body or anything… they can't even use his real _name_…"_

"_Jesus…"_Suddenly the redheads hands jerk from his ears, smashing onto his lap to instead grip the fabric of his shirt. Biting into his lip and tasting the blood there when he did this far too hard, but not minding the pain at all until he released it to whisper a plead into the air. "Shut up… please…"They couldn't hear him. Nobody could. _"I know. Man… do you think he'd see a therapist?"_

Shut up.

"_I don't know, man. Matt's stubborn."_

Shut up.

"_We had a thing at Wammys, you know. We'd always say that, if one of them died, the other wouldn't be too far behind. Guess it was more accurate than I thought…"_

"_Don't talk that way. Matt will be fine."_

Shut up.

Shut up.

Shut up.

"_Halle, I don't think he's fine _now._"

* * *

_

**Outside Los Angelus, California. 6:03 P.M. PDT. Tuesday.**

Matt woke up in an unfamiliar bed.

The lighting in the room was dim, and only when he squinted could he see that it was because the dark purple curtains had been pulled over the only window, and the lamp beside his bed, the only light source he could see, had been flipped off. It took him a moment in his grogginess, but he realized that he must be in Linda's house by the expanse of art on the wall.

"This sucks," Matt muttered exasperatedly to himself, looking up at the ceiling. He couldn't remember it completely, but he was fairly sure he had fallen asleep on the couch. He had to wonder what the girls had decided about his future. After all, it had pretty much been deemed he was a complete nut-job.

Matt smiled as he pictured Linda's shocked expression if he were to call up Mello right now and have her talk some sense into her.

Rolling his eyes Matt slid out of bed, strolling aimlessly around the room as movement tended to help him think, despite his irritation with the overly-plush red carpet as it smothered his toes. Nothing was making sense as of right then, and like hell he was going to let them drag him off to a crazy home when he was clearly perfectly sane. Well, as sane as a normal Wammys child at least, which in retrospect wasn't all that sane at all.

But still. Matt still saw himself as a sane individual, one that had a boyfriend to come home to, and that will have blown a gasket in irritation by now if he realizes that Matt left home for this long without telling him. Matt smiled. _Ah well. At least he'll pay attention to me while he's angry with me._

It was about 30 minutes before there was rapping knock on the door, one that was so light that he almost didn't hear it. He didn't have the chance to say 'fuck off' or 'come on in' (really, at that point, the first would have been more likely) the door swung in and a certain familiar fluff ball shuffled in uninvited.

Matt's eyes narrowed slightly at the boy as he plopped down on the chair without a word, grey eyes never even once landing directly on Matt, though the redhead knew he was being watched in his peripheral vision.

Slowly, Matt sank into a sitting position on the bed. Once he had made himself comfortable, Matt turned to the albino and spoke. "Sup, cotton ball?"

Near looked up at him with a rather empty look in his eyes, one that caught Matt off guard. Near gave most people the 'I-have-no-soul-fear-me' look, but never Mello and certainly not _him. _What surprised him more, though, was what Near said. "Matt, I have to ask you to take off your shirt."

Matt would have choked on his ramen noodles had he been eating any. Instead, he simply choked for air for a moment, coughing for a few seconds to hold back surprised laughter, thinking for sure that Near had just made his very first joke.

He hadn't. In fact, he continued to simply stare at Matt with a dead serious look, straight in the eye, until the laughing nervously subsided. After a second it fully dawned on Matt that Near wasn't kidding in the slightest and he paled, giving Near a quizzical look. "Near… dude… _why?_"

Near stared at him bluntly. "Take it off. And look in the mirror."

* * *

**Outside Los Angelus, California. 6:39 P.M. PDT. Tuesday. **

Matt's mind was numb as he stared at himself and his bare chest, disbelieving of the marks there. They were mostly healed now, but the charred black marks were still there, the red, flawed skin around the wounds still visible. There they were, those unfamiliar marks on his body, among the many firm liar bruises and scars from years and years of abuse that were still visible there.

Choking down a cry of disbelief Matt reached up to carefully prod at one of them with his fingertips. They stung the tiniest bit, but they were clearly not new and had been there at least a month.

Matt wasn't stupid. He had experience with being shot as well as shooting others, and even if he didn't, he'd watched enough crime shows to know that these were gunshot wounds. Gunshot wounds he shouldn't have survived, but did. Gunshots he definitely should have remembered, but didn't.

He had felt the eyes on him for a long time now, burning two extra holes into his back, as if he didn't have enough in his chest. Not bothering to turn to look at him, eyes still locked on his own reflection, Matt said, "What're you looking at, Near?"

"You," Near replied flatly. "Still not realizing your own mistake."

Matt couldn't reply even if he had a good retort, too fascinated by the wounds on his chest. He supposed they had always been there, but he hadn't ever really questioned them, never really paid enough attention to actually notice them. Perhaps he really did get drunk too often, really was too busy now a days when he wasn't…

"Matt," Near said a bit impatiently, "You got shot. Eight times. It was in effort to distract Takada's guards from chasing Mello, part of the mission to kidnap the Kira-supporting newscaster against my knowledge. You only barely survived." He paused for a second, letting this sink in. Then he continued, "Mello wasn't so lucky."

Matt opened his mouth to argue, but the only thing that actually emitted was, "Oh?"

"She had a piece of death note and a pencil in her undergarments, and she hid them in the blanket he gave her to cover herself. He respected her modesty, and it was the death of him," Near explained monotonously. "Mello died of a heart attack, and his remains burned in the church due to other Death Note related circumstances."

He was wrong. He had to be wrong.

"You're going to have to face the facts some time or another, Matt. I understand t he trauma you're going through, but this isn't what Mello would have wanted…"Finally Matt seemed to find his strength, turning around jerkily and meeting Near's eyes, making the little albino jump and almost fall in surprise. "You don't know what he wants!" he shouted immediately storming forward as if to attack the white haired boy, but instead simply dodging around him into the bedroom again. Where were his shoes… his shirt… he had to get out of here.

Near made a noise as if to speak again, but Matt made sure to cut him off in a fury. "You don't know anything! Did you even check the church for remains, huh? Did you even look for bones to make sure he was actually dead and not that bitch, Takada?"

"Matt, the death note-"

"She could have written the name wrong! That's a rule! If you write it enough times…" Matt paused to pull his shirt on over his head, still fuming as he dashed across the room for his shoes. "It doesn't matter. I don't have to explain to you - you're all freakin' crazy. I _talked to him, _Near, we had _breakfast together _this morning! He's just been busy, okay? Doesn't mean he's _dead!"_

"Matt-""He's alive," Matt snapped, grabbing the small bag he had brought and throwing it over his shoulder as he whipped the door open, fully prepared to storm out of the apartment immediately. Near didn't try to stop him - as if he could - instead just letting Matt run to the door and practically burst through it.

Near made no attempt to even stall him until the last minute when the pale hand inexplicitly grabbed Matt's shirt sleeve, making him stop in his tracks for a second to glare at the white haired boy.

To his surprise, there was emotion in Near's eyes. It was sadness, hurt, and pain, all mixed together where apathy once was. The emotion did not manage to reach his ever monotonous voice, however, as he whispered, "He's not. The funeral is on Friday."

Matt watched, slowly, as Near released him and shuffled back to Linda's apartment, somehow unable to run away until the albino had reached the door and finished with a final statement: "Don't forget - I loved him too."

With this, Matt turned and ran, praying that when he got home…

* * *

**Los Angelus, California. 8:41 P.M. PDT. Tuesday.**

…Mello wasn't home when he returned. On the table, the chocolate bar still rotted.

* * *

**A/N: Um, I never actually planned for there to be that little tidbit of one-sided Near/Mello in there considering I loathe that couple with a passion… but it just kind of came out by itself. Oh, the drama…**


	4. Uxorious

**Disclaimer: do I really have to say it again?**

**A/N: sorry I made you wait so long :P blahh**

**Song of Choice: what I listened to was "Too Much To Ask – Arctic Monkeys" but I don't know how well it matches…

* * *

**

**Los Angeles, California 2:07 A.M. PDT. Wednesday**

Terrified. That was the word for how Matt felt.

The other thing that Matt felt was childish; he had holed himself up underneath a grand fortress of blankets and pillows, snuggled inside himself in the dark shadows of the mound's mass. He was only human, and in his panic his first instinct was to climb into bed and hide under the blankets. Naively, he had hoped that it would make him feel safe. It had many other times – he couldn't possibly count the days that he had done this in Wammys house after Mello had screamed at him or hit him, couldn't count the times that he had held his breath and felt safe from the shrieking and crashing and howling of Mello's fearsome temper tantrums. Just as many times, he could remember (but not count) feeling almost safe until Mello would finally come back to him, knowing exactly where he was every time, and lift the blanket with that broad white smile on his face and say, "I'm okay now. Sorry I yelled, Matty." And then everything would be better.

However, it seemed to have the opposite effect now.

Instead of keeping him safe from the horrifying reality of the outside world his solitary fortress only succeeded in keeping Matt all alone with his own thoughts, trapped with them in his own black little hole while the blankets he had once used for warmth and comfort compressed around them. Matt felt suffocated not only by them but by the paths his mind chose to take.

It really couldn't be possible, could it?

It hardly seemed plausible that Matt would forget something as memorable as the one thing he still loved dying, would it? Hell, it hardly seemed plausible that he'd forget that _he _nearly died right beside said man. Not plausible, not at all… he was a genius after all, wasn't he?

But it wasn't so much the non-plausibility of it that made Matt feel so against the idea. No matter how much he didn't want to admit it to himself, he didn't _want _it to be true. He didn't want it to possibly ever be true that Mello was gone, that he had broken his promise and left him after all these years. He didn't want it to be true that he was alone.

_"I'll always be here with you." _

Mello had said that only hours ago, Matt knew this, _knew _it. He had felt Mello's lips on his forehead, heard his soft voice as he breathed the words warmly against his face, touched Mello's fingertips as they brushed against his hand… he had known, he had _been _there. Mello had been there, and Matt didn't believe in ghosts. Mello had been there, and he certainly couldn't be an angel – not that Matt believed in that sort of thing either.

Mello had _been _there. He couldn't be dead.

And, in this quivering, helpless belief Matt shut his eyes, breathing harsh against the warm air beneath the blanket as he struggled into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

**Outside Los Angeles, California 2:24 A.M. PDT. Wednesday**

Not too terribly far away another anxious boy sat curled in Linda's guest bed, for much the same reason in fact. His thin bed sheets were wound around him like a cocoon, trapping his already semi-useless legs in their binding, up his body almost up to his nose. His arms shivered, however, as they had been slid out of the tight curl of bed sheet to cross over his own chest, small fingers clinging to the slight access of the fabric. The other blankets had been kicked off of the mattress and now laid distastefully on the floor, the unfamiliar, sagging pillow beneath his head not protecting him from the stiff mattress beneath.

It had been a long time since he had done this. This thing where his eyes wouldn't shut as he laid down to sleep, instead staying wide and round as discs, darting around the room to peer suspiciously at every shadow, terrified of what they might hold. He really couldn't remember the last time he had reverted back to this old, youthful fear of the dark. Not as much the dark around the room, perhaps, as the darkness dwelling inside his own imagination.

There was only one person who could trigger such things, and that person had always been Mello.

It had always been for different reasons – for fear of pain from him, for fear of him finding out his secret afflictions, for fear of him turning his back and completely ignoring him rather than loathing him. Apathy was what Near feared, despite the fact that it was indeed what he felt the majority of the time, for the majority of people. There were a slim few for which he had feelings for, and those were the minority of which he locked back in the deepest corners of his mind, shadowed over by every apathetic feeling. He distracted himself from these people, these feelings, with each every day task that went by, again and again. But these tasks were much like completing the same puzzle a million times - you mastered it after a while, and once you did, there was no effort and thus no thought put into the actions. So the feelings always crept back, often when he least expected them to.

Like tonight, for instance. He hadn't expected to become so upset all over again over Mello, really – he had already dry-sobbed for far too many hours over his death, though he hated to admit it and often blocked said memory from his mind, trapped it back in the 'feelings' bank. He hadn't expected to become so emotional. But seeing Matt's reaction to it brought back to many memories; it made him realize just how much each of the top three relied on one another. Matt relied on Mello for love, and in return Mello relied on Matt for support and conscious. Near relied on Matt for that inkling of friendship, and in response Matt relied on Near for apathetic viewpoints. Near relied on Mello, too, for that fire he lacked, and Mello for someone to direct that fire at. This dangerous aim of said fire shouldn't have been something Near appreciated, either, but somehow without even meaning to the golden boy had roused feelings in Near that he had never expected to experience.

"God, I'm such a fool," Near whispered, though it came out as more of a croak with his throat so dry. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Near took a deep breath, willing himself to fall asleep. After a long while, he did.

* * *

**Los Angeles, California 6:03 A.M. PDT Wednesday**

Matt had meant to fall asleep, but he couldn't. Something kept him awake, some feeling in the pit of his stomach that refused to be subdued. That whispering in his head, _'wait for him, wait for him, he'll be coming for you. Just wait.'_ Urging him to hold on to the past just long enough…

It was hours that he sat there in his blanket-fortress until suddenly there was the voice. He almost let out a squeak of joy when he heard it – the voice he had been waiting for. "Matty, what are you doing under there? Did I do something wrong?"

Immediately the suffocating fortress in which he had suffered the night away broke open, Matt's face peeking out of it. Briefly, he reminded himself of a gopher poking out of his hole in the ground, but this thought was immediately discarded upon sighting the blonde boy there.

Matt couldn't place it, but something about Mello looked younger than usual. Though the scar was still there, he looked somehow softer than the day before, blue eyes more cloudy, hair more fluffy, skin more porcelain. After a moment of analytically studying him, though, Matt drew it down to the fact the blonde was sans leather, instead dressed in black silk pajamas that Matt had long forgotten he ever bought.

Slowly, Matt dragged himself from the mound of blankets, sweat slowly dappling at the top of his head as he did. He wasn't sure if it was the heat that had gathered beneath the mound or the intensity of Mello's gaze that did it, either.

"Did I do something wrong?" Mello inquired again, this time more high-pitched, desperate sounding. Pleading. It wasn't something that Mello did often, but when he did, it always had the desired effect on Matt – he gave in.

Slumping against the pillows, freed from the mass of blanket, Matt whispered, "No. No, you didn't do anything. I'm just tired."

And then, in total contradiction to anything and everything, Matt burst into tears, letting out massive sobs even as Mello slipped silently into bed beside him, head resting softly against his shoulder as he let all of the emotion pour out, drowning himself in tears.

"I'll always be here, Matt. Always… always…"

* * *

**7:02 A.M. PDT. Wednesday**

_The night was colder than he remembered the air chillier as it cascaded across his cheeks. At first, the feeling was so real, so outstandingly icy that he felt that it must be real life, and that he must have stumbled outside in his sleep somehow. But reality dawned on him quickly, as it sadly always did – it was snowing, tiny little dapples of frozen water falling upon his face, and the area around him was not a city but a firm liar orphanage. This was the past – this was a dream._

_Still, he found himself moving along down the sidewalk, a sense of de ja vu overtaking him, like watching a home video you yourself recorded, except he could see everything with such clarity it was as if it were just happening, and he had for reasons buried in the back of his mind decided to wander down the path towards the back lot in the middle of the wintery night. The orphanage was just as he remembered it, as it should be in a dream. The trees were littered with crystals of ice and a great blanket of snow crunched beneath his feet, his wary steps leaving foot-shaped indentations in the white._

_The reasons for coming there slowly surfaced in his mind as he reached the place, the memory hitting him harder now as he approached the spot; saw the point of interest in the distance. And who else but Mello?_

_And there he was, indeed, clear as day. He stood out like neon against black against the snow, dark clothing obvious against the white backdrop, striking golden hair cascading down to shoulder length. In the weather there were the ever-present white dots of snow that settled briefly onto the boy before melting, wetting his clothes little by little, but it did nothing to dull the brightness that was the second Wammy's boy. It had been the envy of so many, that brightness – especially to him, though he would never tell Mello this for fear of retaliation and reticule._

_Slowly, almost without thinking, he dared make his slow pace through the snow towards the boy, his image becoming clearer the closer he got. Mello didn't appear to be moving at this distance, almost like a statue against the icy locale, but as the other boy slowly approached he could see that this was an illusion. His shoulders were trembling just slightly, hair dropping across his face, shielding it from peering eyes, fists clenched, shaking angrily at his sides. It was quite the show, really, to see Mello bottle up his energy like this. And out in the cold at that –what a temperature too. But then, was he not out there with the golden boy? Who was he to judge?_

_For a moment, he didn't say a word, simply stood a small distance behind Mello. A few steps before getting to this range he had seen Mello tense, only slightly, so he knew that Mello must know he was there. Still, somehow he was willing to risk the other boy's retaliation, if only to take the moment to rake his eyes over the other. Mello seemed almost delicate right there, almost breakable; as if even he could push him over and watch his perfection shatter on the ground. This would have almost been a lovely, almost enticing thought for him, in his own morbid way, had he not cared so much for the blonde._

_Finally, though, simply watching him was too much and touching became the issue. Slowly, arm trembling slightly from either the cold, the anticipation, or perhaps a bit of both, he reached out towards him. Mello tensed even more than he had before, clearly seeing the hand stretch out in the corner of his eye, but there was no turning back now and the pale hand rested uncertainly on the other boy's shoulder. The whisper came quietly, and the speaker cursed himself for sounding so apathetic. "It is cold, you know. Inside would be better."_

_Mello scoffed as the other boy knew he would shrug the hand from his shoulder as the other boy expected. Slowly, regretfully, he let his hand drop, eyes trained on the other boy. After a second, almost as if Mello was thinking it over, the golden boy whipped around; giving him a glare so cold it rivaled the snow leaking ice into his sneakers. "You ought to mind your own business, Near."_

_It took quite the willpower to keep a straight, listless expression on his face through the fire being thrown at him. Really, he had wanted to grin. "My business cannot expand to my competition?"_

_Mello's response was immediate. "No." This, admittedly, hit Near a bit hard, but he kept his emotions back. Buried there, with the others, blockaded to the extent that Near felt sure they would find no escape, at least not until he was alone. Alone in his room, where he could let them all spill out with no judgmental faces watching him be weak._

"_Never mind it then," Near said blankly, averting his gaze to Mello's shoulders if only to avoid eye contact as he spoke. Then, "Why is Mello out here? Is he hoping to catch a cold?"_

_Mello's answer was what surprised him. His words were in a rough, tenacious whisper, one that Near regretted straining to hear. It was an answer that Near always remembered, one that wasn't quite an answer but yet something that was enough to startle Near. Startle him enough for the statement to follow Near right into his dreams, his nightmares, his day to day thoughts. Startle him enough to escape, time and time again, from their place in the back of his mind._

"_You've never loved, have you? You wouldn't understand."_

_And then, before Near could tell him, yes, he _had _loved, Mello was gone, leaving only a path of angry footprints towards the orphanage to show he had ever been there at all._

_The next day, he saw Mello confess to Matt, right there outside the lunch room. And so that, Near supposed, really was why.

* * *

_

**Los Angeles, California 11:07 A. Wednesday**

When Matt woke up, it was to Mello whispering a goodbye in his ear. By the time he realized he wasn't dreaming and his drowsy eyes startled open, the blonde was gone, no trace left behind.


	5. Perplexity

**Los Angeles, California 4:37 P.M. PDT. Thursday**

It was a dark, cloudy afternoon, the air dreary with uncomfortable humidity thanks to the night before. The normally sunny city looked gray now through the clouded window of the apartment, the buildings across the street appearing smudged through the glass.

It was strangely quiet inside the space now, the only noise being the occasional _beep _from the long-neglected fire alarm, whose battery never got around to being fixed despite Mello's arguments that he would do it every time Matt complained – it had been beeping for years, and the shallow breath of the only one left in the crowded little apartment. It had been this way the entire day, so different from before – in those days, the good days, the days _before_ January 26; you could hear an array of noises everywhere, all the time. The constant beeps and bleeps of Matt's game as he bent over his controller with extreme concentration, Mello's yelling and stomping around in complaint to whatever was bothering him that day; Matt failing to cook something and setting off the always-neglected fire alarm, Mello screaming at him; Mello's quiet hums of concentration as he studied early in the morning among the quiet snores of Matt on the bed beside him; the annoying squawking of Misa's voice on the surveillance cameras that nobody was really paying attention to, made obvious by the very different noises coming from the bedroom. Even when Matt was alone in the apartment, as he often was even then, Mello was still _there,_ back then – Mello calling to yell at him for slacking off, Mello texting him to ask for chocolate, Mello's note on the fridge with the list of chores, Mello, Mello, Mello…

The blonde had been silenced now.

Matt pulled the blanket around him more tightly, letting a shudder fall off of his body as he did. It was so strange, being alone in this blanket. This was the blanket Mello used to love, the soft, fluffy velvet blanket that was once adored. The blanket Mello use to wrap himself in while he studied on rainy days. This was the blanket that Matt sometimes snuggled under when Mello was looking especially cold or lonely. This is the blanket they had back in the Whammy's days, whispering about secret worlds and worldly dreams that would never come true. This was the blanket once cherished and twice loved. This was the blanket that was abandoned just like Matt on that January day. This was the blanket that used to smell like Mello, but not anymore.

* * *

**Los Angeles, California 5:02 P.M. PDT. Thursday.**

Matt slowly got to his feet from where he'd been curled up on the bed for a long time, too long really; at least 30 minutes, definitely. More than that, probably, because his back ached as he got to his feet. It didn't really matter, though, because Matt had time to waste now a day.

Groaning quietly, Matt twisted his arms behind his back, lean muscles rippling beneath his pale skin as he stretched. Finally, back cracked and shoulders popped, Matt relaxed; as he did this, the blanket started to slip off his shoulders, the whispering velvet barely clinging to the back of his bare arms.

He let the blanket drop, leaving it in a heap on the floor.

Bare feet sticking a bit to the hardwood floor beneath his feet, he padded out of the bedroom and into what had once been the living room. Once, because it was no longer full of life – it, much like Matt felt, was only an empty husk without any actual meaning to it, because no one really lived there anymore. From his place in the doorway of that room, the Unliving Room, the silence seemed even more painfully obvious, like a neon sign that made no noise and yet screamed at you in all capital letters: "MELLO IS GONE."

Matt wanted to do something. Call Mello's cell for the millionth time, beg him over voicemail to come back home. But this time, something held him back. Perhaps it was the cold.

Padding down through the room Matt looked through the window. This new view of the city was no more or less dank and gray than the previous, the glass no less blurry and smudged. Still, despite the abnormal bleak coldness of the California afternoon, Matt felt the urge to open the window. After a brief struggle with the latch, Matt did just that. A shocking wave of damp air flooded in on cue, tingling over Matt's bare body, calling goose bumps to the surface of Matt's milky skin. Letting a shiver roll of his body, Matt rubbed his hands over his arms, up and down, closing his eyes as his body slowly adjusted to the new chill.

There was something very strange about being there all of a sudden. Naked in the apartment he shared with his lover. A part of him longed almost painfully for what would happen before, before the Living Room was still alive. He could picture it perfectly in his head, clear as day, as if it had only happened yesterday – it felt as if it had.

He could nearly see it - Mello would burst in through the rickety door, icy eyes burning with that frustration and lust that Matt was relishing familiar with. Mello would throw his coat aside, kick off his boots and throw them to the side without care as Matt turned around to see him. He could nearly feel it – Mello's hot breath in his ear as he whispered those words he knew so well, "I need you," not giving Matt time to reply because he already knew the answer. Mello's soft lips would crash on his, would force Matt to a surface – a bed, a couch, the floor; it didn't really matter what. The hands searching over every part of Matt's naked body, lips touching everywhere, frantic and loving and lustful, he could feel it all. But it was never really Mello forcing him, because Matt was always right behind him – pushing off Mello's clothes, hands would slide to anywhere and everywhere, lips would fall on whatever skin possible, and kisses would be deepened in a heated frenzy. He could almost taste it – Mello's chocolate tainted lips, his perfect, salty skin, the blood that was sometimes drawn that Matt would always taste, salty and painful, but enticing all the same. He could almost hear it - Mello would moan against his shoulder blade, the bed would creak or the couch would groan, and—

"Shit," Matt hissed, feeling the sudden protruding hardening in the nether regions all of a sudden. It was painful, almost, tight between his legs. Heat was gathering below in with uncomfortable swiftness, making Matt's face heat to blush as well. His thoughts had wandered too far again – how humiliating.

There was an animal part of Matt that played momentarily with the idea of calling someone up to "fix the problem" – due to connections with the mafia, Matt knew plenty of good whores, and he knew that just going to a club he could find a fine woman (or man, though despite labeling himself Bi Matt wasn't sure if he was attracted to any guy save for Mello; but then, women weren't exactly great in comparison either…). The idea was nice to the horny, hormonal youth still alive within him, but it was discarded almost immediately. He'd feel disloyal and disgusting if he did that. What would Mello say to him?

But then… where _was _Mello?

Where he was, however, was irrelevant. Matt was Mello's – it was _ownership_ in a way that many would scowl at or make 'protect yourself from this relationship' videos about. Despite knowing how unhealthy it was, Matt recognized this and didn't really mind – he loved Mello enough not to care. That bullshit about the illusion wasn't true, at least not with him – Mello had owned him far before sex, really right from the day they became friends at the orphanage, and Matt wasn't about to betray that bond now. Matt was not a cheater, no matter how long Mello was gone.

Even if it was forever…

Matt sighed, running his hands through his hair. He'd have to settle, then.

* * *

**Outside Los Angeles, California 5:06 P.M. PDT, Thursday**

Mello's white smile was wide and wild as he sliced a knife into the pumpkin, which had been placed on the kitchen table in front of him. The vegetable in mention let out a wheeze of displeasure but opened itself up, exposing its mess of insides.

Beside Mello stood an apprehensive, lanky redheaded boy, who was watching the action with wide green eyes, goggled pushed messily into his hair to get a clearer look.

"Whoa! So, so it's orange on the inside, too!" Matt cried gleefully, eyeing the pumpkin's insides with great interest.

A certain set of wide blue eyes rolled with exasperation. "Of course it is, you dumbass," Mello snarled in a strangely affectionate tone, swatting Matt's hand away from where it had reached out to dip their fingers into the gooey substance. Matt squeaked indignantly, drawing his hand away.

"Well, I didn't know," Matt whined, rubbing his slapped wrist in a dramatic pout. "It's not like I've cracked open a pumpkin _before_ this."

Mello huffed, slicing through the pumpkin once again with shocking, deadly accuracy for a twelve year old. The pumpkin obediently fell into fourths, lolling back and forth on their rounded sides. Almost automatically Matt reached to touch the pumpkin again, this time succeeding in dipping his fingers into the stuff before Mello swatted him away. "It shouldn't be surprising, dipshit. Pumpkin pie's orange, isn't it?"

Matt's eyes widened, looking considering at the pumpkin on his hand for a moment before looking back up at his friend with wide green eyes, as if he had just had a grand epiphany with the connection. "Ohhh… that makes sense!" he cried excitedly, giving his friend a look that read very clearly 'You're a genius, and I worship you'. Mello gave him the usual replying look of 'Matt, you dumbass' just as Matt brought the substance to his nose and sniffed, nose wrinkling. After a few seconds of him doing t his and Mello giving him a bland, disbelieving look, Matt seemed satisfied, promptly sticking his fingers into his mouth.

"You don't just eat it _plain_ you idiot, you've got to cook it into something," Mello scolded him, crossing his arms haughtily over his chest as the redhead's face contorted into a strange expression. Apparently surprised, Matt pulled his fingers from his mouth, which were now clean of all pumpkin innards and covered in saliva. "Oh, ew," Mello added, as an afterthought.

Matt brightened quickly, however, giving Mello a wide eyed, excited look. "Ohh, but it's good!" he exclaimed, reaching in again and dipping out more of the gooey substance. This action earned him a slap over the head from a certain blonde, causing Matt to yelp crossly before shoving his fingers back into his mouth, sucking them clean in a pouting manner. "Mphene," Matt accused around his digits.

"I am _not _a meanie, idiot," Mello growled, putting his hands on his hips now in an admittedly girly fashion. "That pumpkin is for the pie later!"

"Ahw, Mel," Matt complained when he finished his pumpkin-glob, wiping his salvia-covered hand on his shirt messily. "Stop being such an old lady."

"_Old lady?_" Mello echoed disbelievingly, giving Matt a bewildered look. Matt wasn't paying attention to the expression, however, because he had already dived forward to grab one of the pumpkin-chunks. He failed to do so, however, because Mello blocked him with his body, nearly toppling the table in the process. This made the redhead squeak defeated, but he did not falter completely, instead launching into a full-on tickle-attack on Mello's abdomen, spindly fingers dancing over the slight exposed inch of skin that peeked from underneath the oversized black shirt, the kind that Mello always wore back then.

Shrill screams and giggles quickly emitted from the older of the two as his redheaded companion bent over him, tickling him until they were no longer in view, only the shrieks and laughter – soon coming from both very ticklish individuals – emanated through the room.

A murdered pumpkin and a silently observing camera were the only first hand witnesses.

.

"What are you watching?"

The voice behind her was unexpected, and though the tone somehow suggested the speaker had been standing there a long time, Linda still choked in surprise, wiping the tears that had gathered in her eyes away with her shirt sleeve in embarrassment before turning to look at the figure in the doorway. If it had been anyone else but _that boy _in the door way she might not have been so humiliated to be crying in front of them, but to show such overwhelming emotion in front of someone so put together had its own special sort of embarrassing reserved just for it.

"Old home video from Wammy's," Linda whispered stiffly, rubbing her nose with her sleeve in a rather not-lady-like fashion that her once-mother would have scolded her for. Here, nobody particularly cared if she used her sleeve as a tissue when she sobbed – it didn't make any difference anyway.

Near in particular had a very uninterested look on his face, completely void of any kind of feeling for either her emotional display or the video still running on the screen. But then, Near always looked that way – there was no telling if it was a mask this time or not. At least, if there _was _a way Linda didn't know about it.

Said boy blinked and shuffled over, sitting himself awkwardly onto the couch and leaning back against hit, eyes training automatically on the screen. The subjected boys were no longer engaged in tickle-fight battle, Matt instead running through the room screaming like a frightened little girl and Mello chasing after him waving the pumpkin-cutting knife, yelling that he was going to 'kill him dead if he didn't stop acting like such a twat.' For a moment, Linda would swear to this day that there was the slightest little smile on Near's face, but it was gone as soon as it came and his monotonous-as-ever voice showed no signs of its existence. It had been there, though – she was sure of it.

"I was not aware there was any footage of the two left in existence," Near said quietly, slowly reaching to finger the single curl in his hair thoughtfully, eyes trained unwaveringly on the screen as the two boys fled in and out of view. "It was my understanding that Mello destroyed them all."

Linda shrugged, pulling her knees up against her chest and hugging them there, chewing on her bottom lip in nervous habit – another thing her mother might have scolded her for, had she still been alive and not buried deep in the ground somewhere in Italy. "He probably thought he did," she mumbled thoughtfully, thinking of the dangerous blonde man she had sighted only once between the time of his departure from the orphanage and his departure from life itself – he had changed so much since he was that little boy now scolding Matt for shoving pumpkin in his face, getting more of it on his face that into his actual mouth. Despite all, Linda felt a quirk of a smile touch her lips at the thought. "He was probably quite proud of himself for it, too. But I found the box hidden in their room before I left – I got nosy and discovered it under the floorboards near Matt's old bed; he must have left it there with plans to go back for them after the case was over." She chuckled half heartedly, eyeing the still expressionless Near out of the corner of her eyes. "That sounds like something he'd do, no?"

Near paused for a long time, as if considering what she said. If he had been doing that, though, his words certainly didn't suggest it. "What do you think we should do about Matt?"

Ah, the predicament with Matt. It was a topic that everyone involved had been trying their very best to avoid, even the people who barely even knew him – nobody was comfortable with discluding Matt from the funeral. At the same time, Matt had clearly gone completely insane – he thought that Mello was still alive, forgot the entire predicament that caused his death and, above all, refused to accept any reasoning from anyone who came to him. If Near had gotten through to him at all, Matt hadn't come back to tell them about it, in any case. Now, the question was what to do about it. It had been discussed extensively before this, but they discussed it again, just like they always did; searching for the perfect solution that wasn't there.

In honesty, they had three options:

They could have the funeral without him. However, this had been exiled from the list in the long run since, really, everyone knew t hat Mello, wherever he was, wouldn't be pleased of the one person he loved wasn't present at the funeral. That, and it was an important part of the mourning process – Matt should be present.

They could postpone the funeral until Matt got better. However, there was that lingering doubt in the air, that question of _what if he __**doesn't **__get better? _Mello was anonymous and under-appreciated enough – they couldn't just _not_ have a funeral. That would be wrong, and Mello had been a Catholic behind all of the violence and crushing sins he did in the name of justice. He would have wanted that funeral.

The third and only other option was to force Matt to go to the funeral in his current condition. To pluck some unlucky individual from the oh-I-know-that-kid-the-one-with-the-red-hair-right-? group to, as gently as possible, drag the redhead from whatever apartment he was currently cooped up in and force him to accept that Mello was dead. Show him the course; let him be present at the funeral, then shoo him off to whatever crazy-home was easiest for one to get into. Anyplace would do – Matt would simply be for gotten in the long run anyway, and it was the silent understanding that, the way things were looking, Matt probably wouldn't get better at all.

It wasn't the kindest thing to do, but what choice did they have?

On the screen a young blonde boy discovers the camera there, finally remembering that it had been watching him act like a fool with his best friend. At first, he scowls at it, marching over to glare into the lens. Beside him, a redheaded boy's face appears on the screen, leaning in to kiss the scowling blonde on the cheek; blushing, Mello smiles, and with that last flickering image the video's time runs out and the screen goes black.

* * *

**Los Angeles, California 2:01 A.M. PDT, Wednesday**

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

"What are you doing?" Mello's voice, into his ear, but he felt no breath on his skin.

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is d_

The pencil broke in Matt's hand, leaving a dusty residue of graphite and a small tear in the paper.

Once he sharpened it again, he started again, hand trembling as he scraped in the words.

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

"Stop this nonsense, Matty," Mello was whispering, hand lingering over his shoulder but not touching. Not touching, not quite. If he had, Matt wouldn't have felt a thing.

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

He had filled thirty pages at least, racing towards forty, fifty, sixty. The same words, over and over again.

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

Maybe, if he reached a hundred, he would finally start to believe it.

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mell_

The pencil breaks again, this time with an audible snap. He drops the pencil, finding his hand trembling spastically as he does.

"God, what am I doing?" Matt whispered with difficulty, staring at the pages and pages that he's defiled with these words. These… lies – they had to be lies, didn't they?

Mello, still standing at his side, looks at the papers with him as if he had been watching the entire time, sighs, brushing his fingers across Matt's hair; he doesn't feel it, but then, he doubts he can feel anything at all right then. He speaks quietly, but his words hold an accusation: "You're going crazy, Mail. Get a grip on yourself."

Matt hears, but he doesn't listen. He takes the papers, all 107 of them that he's written those same words across and shoves them into the recycling bin below the desk with an air of furor. _Get rid of them, _the desperate child of his mind wails, _don't believe it!_

Frantic Matt grabs the bag out of the bin, shoving past Mello without feeling him at all and tossing the thing out the window, where below he knows the recycling bin is… or was that the other window? He doesn't bother to check, instead forcing himself back into the office. To work this time, maybe, but also to see Mello again.

And there he is, staring at him from his place in the floor. Mello meets his gaze with ice blue eyes, locking eyes with him. His lips move, as if to speak to him, but only silence meets Matt's ears despite the desperate, angry look in Mello's cold eyes. Matt only watches in fascination as Mello tries to speak but seems to give up, collapsing to his knees in frustration, mouth open in a shreik that Matt doesn't hear.

From inside his mind, the quiet, sarcastic voice of what he once was mocks him. _"So I guess he's an angel after all." Scoff. "Figures the Mafia boss asshole gets the spot - guess repenting really does work. Damn."_

Matt wants to help - Mello looks so helpless, so broken, so perfectly agonized. But when he blinks, Mello is gone, and there is no one to help at all.

_Your imagination, _his brain reasons with him. _Just your imagination._

Matt turns, moving on automatic as he stumbles into the kitchen, past the blanket crumpled on the floor, past the table with the untouched, molding chocolate bar, past the kitchen chair that Matt could swear Mello sat on yesterday, but the cushions leave no indentations to suggest it. Matt retrieves the plastic bag from under the sink, slides back into the office. Mello has not returned, but Matt pretends not to notice, replacing the bag and sinking back into his chair to work, because even if Mello isn't speaking with him he has to get this research done for him, because when he gets home, he's going to want it.

Shoving the blank, unused papers that had once been among a stack of writing aside, Matt gets to work. But even with the papers disposed of and the Mello gone from the room, the indentations of what had been written on the papers before still echo on the papers left unmarked, words pressed into pages and pages of writing too hard and desperate. Matt does not peer to look, does not wish to see it again, but they're there, pressed into the paper and burned into the back of his eyelids.

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

_Mello is dead._

Behind him, the phone rang in shrill, angry chimes. Matt dropped the game he was playing immediately, nearly killing himself spinning around in his chair and leaping to his feet. Because his phone only rang with that tone for one person, and hell if Matt was going to miss that call.

* * *

**A/N: Dun dun dun, cliffhanger of fail! :O Sorry for the lack of detail, but remember that this is third person limited, so you don't get much insight as to what Matt's thinking, especially since he isn't thinking much of anything since he's a crazy braindead bastard at the moment. XD So yeah.**


	6. Exaltation

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or the Bible.**

**A/N: Another brilliant demonstration of how much I fail at consistent updating... haa...**

**Song of Choice: The Blower's Daughter - Damien Rice

* * *

  
**

**Los Angeles, California 2:01 P.M. PDT, Thursday**

The last time Matt had seen the church, it was beautiful. In a way it was a small, nondescript kind of place, and yet the quiet boldness it had taken upon itself was amazing in and of itself. It had been long abandoned since Mello had first dragged him there, of course – what had once been a frequented religious ground had been reduced to a crumbling old church, the once well taken care of lawn becoming overgrown, the once clear, illuminating stain-glass windows now coated in a slowly thickening layer of dust. It had once been a loved, frequented place, but bigger, better churches had popped up in the area in its place, reducing it to just a few outsiders like them; with the rise of Kira, the number of people reduced so much that these outsiders never saw one another, and if there had been anyone else to visit it than them, Matt would have been surprised.

Matt had never once been religious, of course. Even if he had been given the opportunity to be – which he hadn't, thanks to his moral-less parents and ruthless upbringing as a whole – Matt was too much of a realist to really delve into trivial what-ifs. Plus, to be perfectly honest, Matt was just simply too lazy to make up his mind about something like religion or God – he didn't see any reason to think of an opinion on something he could never prove. He wasn't like Mello – he never took the time to focus on the big picture; Mello had always been the type to tear every little piece of life apart and then immediately attempt to fit it back together in a way that made it make more sense.

To be frank, Matt thought the whole ordeal was pointless.

But it meant something of a great deal to Mello – he made that very clear by the rosary that constantly hung on neck, the very beaded accessory that would swing back and forth in an eerie, pengelum-esque fashion over Matt when Mello bent over him, as if God himself were staring at them as they made love. Perhaps, to Mello, that's just exactly what it was – he never took it off, not even when he showered like he used to when he was younger (this ended when Linda stole it from him on April Fools – Mello had promptly stolen it back, chopped off one of her pigtails, and trashed her room).

It had never bothered Matt, Mello's quiet infatuation with God, but Matt could never share that with him the way he was. He simply couldn't.

But it meant something of a great deal to Mello. So when he twined his fingers in Matt's one soft Monday morning and asked him in that rare, bashful tone if he would accompany him to the church, just that once, he couldn't refuse. Mello, of course, knew that churches made Matt uncomfortable – the redhead thought for sure that if Mello was right about this God fellow, he'd be struck by lightning any moment (he was an atheist, a homosexual, a chain smoker, and participated in countless illegal activities after all, and it wasn't as if he repented for any of it…) and of course Mello came up with some brilliant promise, an anxious "I'll never ask you to do this again, I promise" among other similar promises. It was a promise that Mello kept, never literally asking Matt to come with him the next time. But every time Mello half-heartedly snuck out of bed early Sunday mornings and slipped into his one and only church-suitable outfit, clearly to head out to the old abandoned place, Matt would get out of bed and do the same.

Because if Mello was infatuated with God, then Matt had similar feelings towards Mello – no minor uncomfortable feeling was going to keep him away.

The first time Matt saw the church, it was striking. Matt had never been one for that type of thing, but despite not being a religious man he was not immune to the simple, crumbling beauty of the place. Besides, how could Matt possibly think badly of a place that put such a perfectly determined yet blissful expression on his lover's face, make Mello twist his hand tighter in Matt's and whisper, "I told you it was cool looking."

The inside of it was no different. It had never been a big church, and it was surely not one of those places that looked bigger on the inside than from the outside. But despite the quaint dimensions of the little Church Mello fell immediately into rapture with it, giving Matt a gentle, chaste kiss on the lips before falling into one of the seats and bowing his head.

Matt knew how the prayers that Mello always whispered turned out. They started blissful and rapt, but would slowly become frustrated and trembling as Mello realized and re-realized just how much he had ruined himself. And then the tears would come, the whispered accusations – _why didn't you help me, God? Why didn't you do something for me, for L? How could you put Matt and I in this situation, even that bastard Near… why hasn't Kira been brought down yet – is it not your will?_ Whatever the plea was, whatever the accusation, Mello always grew frenzied and distraught by the end of it.

Because as much as Mello loved God, and as much as Mello was captivated by His teachings, he had never had a great relationship with Him. For, as far as Mello could see, God had never loved him back.

Every time, Matt didn't want to see it. He wanted to turn away, go outside, take a smoke. Watch the poisonous smoke roll up to the churches great rafters as mother Mary's grand stain glass image looked down on him. Matt couldn't help but think she always looked disappointed in him when he did this, but he did this every time, until he could hear the sobs Mello emitted. Sometimes, these sobs were in anger with God, for killing L or for taking his parents away or for whatever thing he was infuriated with today. Sometimes, it was in plea of forgiveness for ever being angry in the first place. On the worst days, it was when Mello realized that Matt was still there, listening to him, and for all the complaining he did he'd really never been too bad off if Matt was still there for him.

Every time, no matter the reason, Matt would always stub out the cigarette on whatever surface was closest (usually one of the dusty benches) shove the cig into his pocket and stroll over to envelop his lover into a hug, letting him cry into him as long and as hard as he needed. Because no matter what, Matt never left.

But it never ceased to amaze Matt how such a place, such a very uncomfortable, judgmental place, could move Mello to tears this way. And yet, at the same time, sitting there with that blonde every Sunday, he could understand a bit – whatever the reason, Mello needed an outlet. Church was that outlet, and Mello was Matt's – in the end, this place made them both better for Monday.

The first time Matt saw the church, it was remarkable.

The last time Matt saw the church was that day, a certain Thursday. And as he stared at it, he could feel his legs trembling, threatening to give out on him as realization struck him.

It was barely even a church anymore. It had been burned so badly when _that _happened that you could mistake it for any charred, ruined building now. The only reason it hadn't been completely demolished at this point was that Near had put up some sort of argument for it; Near, being the next L and all, didn't lose arguments. This trait left the tortured skeleton of the place of worship still standing, teetering between falling into a pile of ash and insolvent material and standing as some sort of eerie relic. The only way you could even know for sure this building was ever a church from the outside, besides the basic shape of the structure to give a few hints to the more clever of people, was the now blackened wood cross that once stood proudly on the door, now crumbling downwards and leaning on its side, as broken as Matt felt right then.

Matt had to assume that Near had done it for him, not letting them get rid of this place. Looking at it now, so marred and ruined, Matt almost wished he hadn't.

Maybe, if he hadn't ever picked up that phone in the first place, he wouldn't be here. Maybe if he hadn't come, he wouldn't be falling apart.

_(Flashback)_

_Matt picked up the phone with a frantic stagger, flipping it open and pressing it to his ear. He practically shrieked his greeting. "Mello?"_

_The other line was silent. There was not even breathing._

"_Mello?" Matt's voice had risen even higher. If he kept shrieking like this, the neighbors were going to get concerned. Matt didn't care. "MELLO! AWNSER ME, I KNOW IT'S YOU!"_

_The other line was silent. There was not even breathing._

_Matt faltered, starting to tremble a bit. Across the room, the uneaten, molding chocolate bar watched him as he fell onto the couch, knees apparently deciding to go on strike. _

"_What kind of sick joke is this?" Matt found himself whispering, holding the phone with such pressure that he was surprised it didn't give out and crunch in his hands. He was trembling with such intensity that he almost missed the slight, crackling whisper that made its way through the speakers._

"_Mail. . ."_

_Before Matt could react, the line went dead._

_Before Matt could call it back, the phone rang again. It was Near. He was calling with the information he didn't want, with the news he didn't want to hear. Three things, three deadly pieces of information that Matt had tried so hard not to think about…_

_(End flashback)_

Matt slowly walked into the church, ignoring the eerie silence around him as well as the shrieking child in his mind begging him to take for the hills and make a run for it, to get out of there immediately.

The church was marred and destroyed, the benches that once sat neatly in a row now burned and charred, many tossed aside or crumpled. The once clean, glossy oak wood floors were now charred and blanketed with ash, and though the truck that was supposedly there, that supposedly once held Mihael Keehl and the captured Kiyomi Takada, there are still the skid marks and oil stains on the floors to prove it had once been there. The stain glass windows that Matt had once had great admiration for had fared no better: the lucky ones had blackened in places or completely, their once shining, reflective images stained with residue; the unlucky had shattered completely, leaving a sweep of sharp, multihued tears in their wake. Eerily, as Matt looked up at the one he had always loved the most for its intricate beauty, Mary was still there, staring at him with those judging glass eyes.

Half of her face had been blackened, but he could still see those eyes.

Slowly, almost as if driven by some unseen force, Matt floated down the aisle way, slipping onto the least damaged bench, ignoring the knowledge that he'd surely have a large black, ashen stain on his butt after this. Slowly, he looks up, eyes meeting with the large cross. The grand icon had once stood so tall and proud, once reflected the light of the sun that glinted across it with an aura of what many might call holiness. Now the fire had consumed its legs and brought it to the ground, tilting so that it just barely stayed upright by leaning against the crumbling, charred roof.

Yet even in such a state Matt found himself staring at it with awe, because even if he wasn't a religious person, he had worshiped in his life. Not a God, not Kira, and certainly not Christ; he had worshiped, but not anything beyond reason. He had worshiped life, cherished life and it's small treasures, worshiped the one thing he could truly feel passion for and hold in his arms – all this time, he had Mello for such veneration as that. And Mello had been far from perfect – he'd been a sinner, a criminal, a murderer; he'd been damaged and scarred, he'd been ruined; he'd been simply mortal, simply human.

Mello had died for what he believed in. Was that not what a cross symbolized?

Well, in any case, it did for Matt. This cross especially.

He almost envied this cross in particular, despite it's now dilapidated, charred, ruined form. Because despite its state of ruin, despite its horrible fate and neglect, it had been there to bare witness to what had happened here. It had watched Mello in all the ways Matt never could – it understood his desperate worship, angry sobs, wistful praise; it recognized the way Mello had faith in the unseen, despite the fact that he had never received any help from this God; most of all, it had witnessed the end of Mello's plan.

For a moment, Matt wished for the impossible. He wished that cross to tell him, to show him what it had seen that last January day. Just come out and say the truth of what had happened to Mello – had he died, or had he escaped? If he'd escaped, which way had he gone? If he died, was it quick and painless? Or was it a slow, crackling, horrible death?

Matt wanted so badly to know. But that man in the back of his mind, that small part of him still clinging to reason, he wondered if, had the cross become animate and spoken the truth to him, if he'd even believe it.

After all, he'd never been too trusting of religion.

* * *

**Los Angeles, California 7:39 P.M. PDT, Thursday**

Mello had always liked making lists.

He had especially liked making lists on his special list pad.

He had really especially liked making lists on his special list pad full of chores for Matt to do.

He had really especially enjoyed making lists on his special list pad with the sticky seam on the back because he could stick it to the fridge without having to search for a magnet (which Matt constantly reminded him that they'd never owned, but he'd never believed him).

He had awfully enjoyed putting to-do lists on his special list pad that was long and skinny, with plenaty of space to write pleanty of things for Matt to do. None of them ever really got done unless they were simple (I.E. _buy me chocolate, return rental movie, call me at six to check in, don't die) _but it prevented Matt from complaining that he had 'nothing to do'.

Mello had always liked making lists, but not anymore. Today, the fridge was empty.

So Matt made his own list.

He didn't touch Mello's special list pad, he wouldn't dare; instead he snatched a piece of computer paper and some tape and, in his own strangely neat handwriting (Mello's was a messy, mostly illegible scrawl most days) he wrote down his list.

It was painful to write, and he pressed down so hard that the paper tore once or twice,but once he was done...

* * *

**Los Angeles, California 7:41 P.M. PDT Thursday**

**Things I Don't Want to Hear (But Can't Afford to Forget)**

**Mello (supposedly) died on January 6, 2010.**

**Mello (supposedly) died in our church, killed by the Death Note by Kiyomi Takada (who is also dead).**

**The funeral is on Monday.**

**Ready or not, here it comes...**

…

It was a short list, but Matt stared at it for hours.

* * *

**A/N: Oh dear. Religious reference. It won't be the last either… bare with me.**

**So: Who was on the phone? Feel free to make guesses in your **REVEIWSSS!****

**Also… umm… please don't be offended by anything I said about religion, ok? None of this is really my view at all. So yeah.**


	7. Nostalgia

**Disclaimer: Orly? Yarly.**

**A/N: Uhm... yeah. Hope the OC's in this don't annoy you, but they won't be that big of a part in the story except to make Matt's life all the more indecisive.**

**Song of Choice: Annie Waits - Ben Folds (though I'm not sure how well it actually matches, again...)

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**Los Angeles, California 3:02 A.M. PDT, Friday**

The chocolate is the biggest clue, really. It should have been what gave Matt the knowledge in the first place, if he forgot so easily what had happened to him. The chocolate should have been what clued Matt in; he shouldn't have waited until the thing hit him like a train, he should have simply known and stepped onto the other side of the track, not simply lingered there. But it had hit him, and it was too late.

But the chocolate was still there, sitting on the table, staring at him. And so was Matt, sitting on his chair in a weird little crouch, staring back.

He hated sitting like this. It was the way L sat. Mello had never been able to pull off that sit, though he'd tried several times and failed miserably – he simply didn't have the balance. Matt did, but he'd never been comfortable with it. Still, he sat like this, hoping it would help him think as he stared down that chocolate bar.

It didn't. He wasn't L. Nothing could open his mind – it was already too far open, gaping so far that it believed not only the true but the false as well. He'd fallen victim to his own imagination, it seemed, and there was nothing more to do but wait.

The chocolate bar was staring at him, though. Staring at him. If it had eyes, Matt felt sure it would be glaring, but since it didn't, it only stared.

Slowly, Matt got to his feet and paced over to the table, looking slowly down at the chocolate. It had been sitting there, untouched since the day Mello had left it there, only a single bite taken out of it. It was starting to get that ugly white gristle on it from sitting out in the open air, the kind of thing that Mello had always hated emmsnely because it had signified wasted chocolate and _god dammit that wasn't allowed to happen, not with him around._

Sucking his cheeks in and biting them slightly, a bit too hard really, he reached out and took the chocolate bar into his hand. Rolled it around in his palm. Looked at it condescendingly. Rolled it again, so that the bite was staring him in the face. Looking at it, Matt realized he'd never taken the time to memorize the bite marks Mello left, never thought about the unique pattern that his teeth would leave behind, not just on the chocolate but on his neck, his shoulders, anywhere else Mello felt the need to bite.

Matt had always liked that, but there were no bitemarks on his body anymore – they had all faded from the time he had been left behind. Suddenly, he felt jealous of this chocolate bar, as absurd as it was. It still had the mark, still had the sign of Mello's presence bitten into its body whilst Matt's had faded completely.

For once, Matt wished Mello had really hurt him, just once. Really, really hurt him physically, clawed him deep enough to leave a rip in his skin, shoved him hard enough to send him into a jagged surface, bitten him hard enough somewhere… anything to leave a permanent scar. Even a tattoo would suffice, as long as Mello put it there himself.

But now he was gone, and Matt had nothing.

"You're such a fool," the chocolate whispered. Or perhaps it was the Mello that wasn't there in the doorway, smirking at him, blue eyes dancing with thousands of teasing, taunting words. Probably, it was just Matt, muttering to himself.

Carefully, gently now, Matt put the chocolate bar back on its spot, releasing his cheeks from his own teeth's grip. There was blood in his mouth, and his head was pounding sporadically, giving him a horrible headache. His heart had tightened in his chest, and his vision blurred with what could be tears, but could just be his eyes watering from the headache he'd given himself.

"Come to bed," Mello didn't whisper. "It's late."

"Okay."

* * *

**Somewhere Over The North Atlantic, 1:01 P.M. PDT, Saturday**

Matt hated airplanes.

Near had gotten him a first class ticket, one by the window with a TV above his head. The television was playing some old movie, Breakfast at Tiffany's, he thought. He'd seen the movie before – Matt couldn't ever understand why, but Mello enjoyed it. Funny, because Mello had never been one for romance.

The overly peppy airplane-attendant continued to pester him, asking him if he wanted a drink, something to eat, maybe a beer and did he want a pillow? Matt always rejected her. She was being more attentive to him than anyone else in the first-class department. Maybe she found him cute. Maybe she found him weird, and was curious. Maybe Near had paid her.

She was annoying. Annoying, also, was the couple sitting behind him. Both female; he could hear them flirting behind him, one of them giggling almost constantly at the things the other one said. They were sweet, really cute. The giggly one was extremely over-attentive to the other, but not in a maddening way, more in an I-love-you, let-me-do-something-good. Like a puppy. Like Matt. Annoying, because it made Matt wish, and wishing for impossible things was stupid.

"Don't worry so much, Matt. We'll land soon. I know you hate planes, but we have to get to England," Mello didn't say, not leaning back in the seat and kicking his feet up on the other seat with a wild grin on his face.

Matt didn't turn, didn't look at not-Mello. He couldn't allow himself to acknowledge him, because he wasn't there.

But still, not-Mello's whisper was just as enticing whispered in his ear, even if he couldn't feel it on his cheek: "Don't ignore me, Matty," he didn't whine. "Did I do something wrong?"

_You're dead,_ Matt thought.

"Sorry," Matt said. He turned his face to look at not-Mello, but as would be expected, he wasn't there. Instead there was only the flight attendant standing in the isle-way, looking at him confusedly.

"What was that?" she inquired, big green eyes blinking curiously. Matt's wry smile vanished then, though he hadn't even realized it was there at all, and he shook his head with a mumbled, "nothing."

The flight attendant gave him a pointed, slightly worried look but didn't push the topic, instead toddling away to the grumpy old man across the way waving her in, calling something about more beer. Behind the seats, the second girl giggled (again). The first girl chuckled: "You're so cute, Andie."

Not-Mello smiled at Matt, appearing in his vision a bit fuzzily. Matt realized suddenly that he couldn't remember every detail of Mello's face anymore. It was startling, and it crushed Matt's heart.

Not-Mello tilted his head to the side slightly, blue eyes soft with distant nostalgic sadness. "Do you remember when we were like that, Matty?" he asked softly, reaching over to lay a hand on Matt's. The redhead couldn't feel it there, didn't undergo the comforting warmth of his once-lover's palm that wasn't really there, but still it made his heart flutter because he couldn't help it. Not-Mello's eyes softened even further, once icy blue depths becoming the blue of a gentle sky. But when his lips moved again to speak, the words didn't reach Matt's ears, simply floating away. Because they weren't really there.

Matt turned away and pressed his head back on the cold window, closing his eyes as tight as he could manage, trying to block out the knowledge from his head.

Behind him, Mello's expression into a broken, pained one, the '_I love you'_ lost on his lips.

* * *

**Winchester, England 8:03 P.M. GMT, Saturday**

"So, Matt, how was your flight?"

He sounds so dumb, trying to talk to him like that. He's treating him like a new orphan, just recently tossed out of their normal life and shoved into a crazy world of competition and death. He sounds like he's trying to treat him like a normal guy, just an old friend, but knows he isn't.

The old man looks into the review mirror, peering at him. He's so old. Matt wonders to himself if this guy is the replacement for Wammy – he's certainly wise enough looking… but then, the aura that made Matt immediately trust the original old man isn't quite there in this one.

Matt looks down at his feet: "Annoying. People talked too much."

The rest of the car ride is silent.

* * *

**Winchester, England 8:47 P.M. GMT, Saturday**

The old man speaks again only once they have pulled into the driveway of their destination, outside the grade wrot iron gate that Matt is all too familiar with. "Please enjoy your stay here, Mister…?"

Matt looks up at him, blinking his eyes drearily. _So you aren't the replacement Wammy, then. You're just a chauffeur – you have no idea who I am, nor what's wrong with me. You just think I'm a rude young man, _he thinks, a slight superior feeling falling over him. He considers just ignoring him and strolling out, keeping his nose in the air, but of course, he doesn't. He's not superior, not really – in fact, he's the lowest of the low right then, acting like this to what seems to be a very kind old man who, despite the rudeness Matt had displayed before, is smiling at him still and asking for his name.

Looking down, Matt mutters, "Jeevas." It's risky, giving him his real name, but he decides it doesn't matter. If this old man has some hidden hatred towards him and can use his name against him somehow, well…

Matt can't say he'd protest the release of death.

The old man's smile widens into a much more genuine one. "Mr. Jeevas, hmmn? Ah, well then," he replies kindly, shuffling out of the car and coming around to open the door for Matt, dark brown eyes flickering with soft kindness. "Is there a Mrs. Jeevas in the picture?"

Matt flinches visibly half way out the door, face flushing painfully. Seeing the horribly pained look on Matt's face, the old man quickly backtracks, face growing wry. "Um, sir, I apologize, I did not want to intrude, I am terribly sorry if I upset you in any way…"

"No…" Matt interrupts him, sliding out of the car and hugging himself almost childishly, eyeing the old man with a look of anticipation. "No, whatever, I… there _was_ another Jeevas. Sort of." When the old man gives him another confused look, he elaborates, "Mello passed away."

The old man's face goes from confused to sympathetic in an instant, hand reaching out to pat Matt's shoulder. The redhead flinches, for once not used to contact since he hadn't had any kind of friendly contact in a very long time, but he doesn't move away from the touch. "I'm sorry to hear that, boy," he replies firmly, shaking his head slightly. "I'm sure she's smiling down at you from heaven now, though." He smiles. "Cheer up, chap – she'd want you to be happy."

Matt doesn't bother to correct him. Not about anything he said. He doesn't tell him that Mello was a boy, a _man_; he doesn't tell him that Mello, if he is dead, certainly isn't going to be smiling even if he _is _in heaven; he doesn't tell him that he'll probably never cheer up. Not in a million years. Instead he just offers the old man a false smile, adjusts his goggles, says "Thank you, sir," like a good old boy, then hurries off on his way with that fake smile on his face, if only to keep the old man happy for a while.

After all, just because Matt's life is ruined, he sees no reason to ruin the man's day while he's at it.

* * *

**Winchester, England 9:01 P.M. GMT, Saturday**

"Oh, _Matt_! You showed up!"

Matt barely feels it at all when Linda tackles him into a hug, even as her even-bigger-than-he-remembered breasts crush into his face. He forgets sometimes that he's a little short, and she's more than a little tall. When she finally pulls away, letting Matt breath, she starts on a whirl of speaking. He hears apologies, sympathies, I'm-so-sorry-for-you's, cries, I-missed-you's, lies like everything-will-be-okay-I-promise. He hears, but he doesn't listen, and he doesn't reply. He just stares past her at the children across the way.

He's almost surprised to see that the orphanage is up and running again, after Wammy died. Now that he thought of it, he had read an email talking about that, but at the time he hadn't thought he cared. He'd been too busy planning with Mello, planning and talking and making love and being in love and love love love…. He hadn't even stopped to think of what had happened to the orphanage he _fallen in_ love in, nor about the children he'd left behind when he was eighteen.

The children he looks at are unfamiliar and very young. He watches, fascinated, as a tiny brunette boy throws a block at a little girl with a silvery-blonde bob. The girl squeaks in irritation and turns on the brunette, tiny fists balled with anger, but as Matt watches the brunette boy curls into himself and wails for forgiveness: "I'm sowwy, I'm sowwy, Twish, I didn't men it!"

As Matt watches, still enraptured by the scene, the little girl lets out a grumpy huff. "Thas okay I guess. But its _Trish_, not 'twish'," she mumbles. To her left, a little redheaded boy (not red like Matt's, but the orange most people are familiar with starts crying then, just as peace is made, and again chaos breaks out, a tall black haired male rushing from the other room to comfort the redhead. And then, just like that, peace is restored to a whimper from small child and whisper from slightly less small, a giggle from the brunette, an eye roll from the blonde, and a coo from the raven-haired.

It's a pretty average scene for children in an orphanage, but something about it keeps Matt gazing.

Linda sees Matt staring at the children, blinking in surprise as she realizes she's been ignored this entire time, though really she should have been used to it. She turns now and places a hand on Matt's shoulder, brining him halfway back to reality as she murmurs, "The blonde one is Trisha, everyone calls her Trish. She's a little bit mean, but she's nice to Jay, the little freckled brunette guy." Linda smiles a little more at the next child she describes: "The redhead is Sneak – he lives up to his name, too, always sneaking around and causing trouble ever since he learned to crawl. And then the guy over there is our oldest right now – he's 15. You might remember him; he was one of our younger kids when we were still in the orphanage – Shine? The kid who always make origami?"

Matt smiles, but just barely. "Yeah, I remember."And he does remember – he always remembers the orphans. It was one of his gifts – he never forgot a face. Now, still looking out at Shine, he remembers almost completely; he remembers him not only because of his skill with origami but because he was also the one and only cross-dresser in the orphanage (unless you wanted to include Mello, but Matt doubted that he'd appreciate the title very much). Right then, actually, Shine was dressed in a soft blue tank-top and a short denim skirt, silky black hair pulled into a messy ponytail as he rocked Sneak in his arms. He'd gotten made fun of for the habit quite a lot back in his childhood days, at least at first, but after a while Mello actually stuck up for him and he got left alone – nobody wanted to get on the blonde's bad side. Thinking about that now, Matt wondered if Shine knew that his once-protector had

The redhead grimaced, putting his face in his hand. Even now, he hated finishing that sentence. Even now, a damaged part of his mind screamed at him that it couldn't be true, that he would _remember_ if it were true…

Linda looks up at Matt with soft eyes, as if she understands, but she doesn't and she knows it. "The orphans that knew Mello were informed of his death already – you don't have to be the one to tell them." As if that was what he was worried about… "The younger ones who never knew him just know that they're going on a fieldtrip on Monday."

"Oh," Matt echoed distantly. Then, "How many children are there now?"

Linda smiles distantly, true affection alight in her eyes. "Oh, I don't know. Twenty? Twenty two?"

Matt shoves his hands in his pockets, watching the children blankly. Jay is watching Trish with wide, worshiping eyes as she builds a block tower, a huge grin alight on her face. The sight of it sends a stab through Matt's heart – _we used to be like that._

"Cute, isn't it?"a whispered voice doesn't say in his ear.

Matt feels a chill go down his back. Not-Mello was back again, even after vanishing half way through his plane ride; he doesn't look at him, but he can tell he's sad, or would be, if he existed, by his voice.

"Who takes care of them?"Matt asks shakily, ignoring not-Mello and returning his gaze to Linda. The brunette pauses for a wary second, and then shrugs.

"I don't know. Roger's son, officially, since Roger passed away about a week after you left." This knowledge stings more than Matt thought it was – not so much that Roger was dead, since he knew that the old man had cancer before he left, but that no one had bothered to inform him that he died. Then again, he'd been busy with Mello then – he doubted he'd have been terribly interested in going to the funeral anyway.

"Anyway," Linda continues warily, "It's officially his son, Chet, but… well; he's not really around a whole lot. Mostly the older orphans and the two helpers – Syd and Mandy – help out and take care of each other. Mostly Chet just helps with the basic stuff like food and instructors that come in, not much else. He sort of just… sits around in his apartment. Hangs out with his women, you know." Linda's smile has become faker and faker by the moment. "He tries, though. Really, he does."

She's lying, Matt can tell. Chet does nothing at all.

This stings even more. Whammy and Roger were dead – they were practically the parents of the orphans. Now, they'd been replaced with… what, a manager? The thought made Matt a little bit sick. Mello would have been infuriated. In fact, he probably would have torn down the Chet guy's door and shrieked at him for being a heartless bastard he is for sitting around on his ass while a bunch of poor orphans need guidance. Called him a bastard and a fool and then a whole string of curse words before promptly throwing him out of office and appointing someone else King of Wammys. Maybe he'd even take the job himself.

Matt looks down at his feet. He's not that strong.

"Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah," Linda sighs. But then, quickly, she perks up: "But we get off just fine. It gets awfully difficult sometimes, since money tends to disappear sometimes, but… well, we're a family around here. Not everything's changed."

Matt smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It doesn't matter – his goggles hide them anyway.

* * *

**Winchester, England 10:02 P.M. GMT, Saturday**

Matt has jetlag.

Matt is exhausted.

Matt can barely think straight.

Matt has a headache.

Matt is in his old bed again – it's smaller than he remembers.

Through the thin walls of the orphanage, he can hear two young orphans talking through the walls.

They're tainting Matt's pain with nostalgia:

_"Is it okay if I love you?"_

_"Sure."_

_"..."_

_"Oh, oh, I love you too, damn it. Don't give me that look, I'm a ditz!"_

_"Silly..."_

Matt can hear them.

Matt remembers.

Matt wants to cry.

Matt is exhausted.

Matt can't sleep.

How can he?

* * *

**A/N: Gah, well, sorry for several things: the long wait, the insert of OCs, and the crappiness of this chapter altogether. Do you feel bad for Matt? The orphans? Do you like Shine? Personally I enjoyed the picture of him I had in my head XDD plus I loved the idea of Mello gallivanting through the halls, defending little six-year-old-or-so cross dresser orphans XD I don't know why. I loved writing Jay and Trish, too X3 Even if they're really just there to make Matt's life miserable. Also, because this occurred to me: no, stupid, the people on the other side of the wall are NOT Jay and Trish, they're only like four years old XDD just to make that clear.  
**

**Again, sorry about the OCs, but they were kind of necessary, and for the wait, which I have no excuse for C: Review?**


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